


Bargain

by starswholisten



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Rhys's POV, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starswholisten/pseuds/starswholisten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this was the cost to I had to pay to save Feyre, to save my people, to save Prythian – I would pay it in full. And deep down, I selfishly had to save myself. For if she died, I might lose my own will to fight.</p><p>Rhysand's POV of his bargain with Feyre, from chapter 37 of A Court Of Thorns And Roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fic in a loooong time (as in, since I wrote Harry Potter fanfic in 2011) so please bear with me as I try to get the hang of this again!  
> Feyre & Rhysand from ACOTAR are my newest obsession so I've decided to get back into fic writing to cure my ACOMAF book hangover. Enjoy, and feel free to leave comments :)

I could feel her pain.  
It was a constant, throbbing ache in my own arm, in my head, and in my chest. For three days, I was helpless to the desperate desire to go to her, to help her, to heal her.  
Feyre was dying. And I had to let her suffer.  
For her own sake, I could not go to her in the days following the first trial. My plan would not work unless she was ready to fall over the edge, right into death’s waiting arms.  
Watching her first trial had been the hardest thing I had ever done, but watching her win filled me with such relief and even, for the first time in fifty years, _joy_ – that I knew what I had to do.  
She’d fought. She’d been stubborn and willful and risky – and I had to make sure she kept that fight burning in her until the trials were over and Amarantha was merely a dull whisper of smoke in a nightmare.  
So, as much as it pained me, I made Feyre wait out the pain until I could feel her slipping away. Lucien wouldn’t come to her rescue this time – that I was sure of. He was already walking on eggshells after his outburst at the trial, and he was frustratingly docile following his punishment. He spent the days stowed away in his chambers, a dejected waste of space allowing his friend to die off in the dungeons. _Prick._ If Feyre expected him to save her again, she might find herself all the more desperate upon declaring my offer.  
My offer to save her life.  
This plan would have to go over perfectly for it to work.  
For if Feyre showed any signs of gratitude, of softening up to me – Amarantha would suspect. She would know.  
She would know how taken I was with Feyre. She would be jealous if she found out I was attracted to her, and murderous if she found out I was in love with her. She would kill Feyre for it. She would kill her as my first punishment, and then all of my people would become greater targets for her wrath.  
So I would offer to heal Feyre, but she had to hate me. At least as much as she hated me now, but preferably with a greater fervor. As much as it would kill me to see her look at me with renewed disgust, to read her dismissive thoughts of me, and to know that she would never see the real me or my real feelings, I had to do this. Hating me would protect her from Amarantha’s fury, and it would give her a reason to keep fighting.  
If this was the cost to I had to pay to save Feyre, to save my people, to save Prythian – I would pay it in full. And deep down, I selfishly had to save myself. For if she died, I might lose my own will to fight.  
On the fourth day, I couldn’t stand her pain any longer. Her thoughts became clouded, and my own blood boiled feeling the fever that had developed in her overnight. I winnowed into her cell, my shadows billowing off me in great sweeps of darkness. When I saw her laying there on the dungeon floor, I almost couldn’t go through with my plan.  
Collapsed in a corner, Feyre was pale and limp. Her rags clung to her, damp with sweat, and piles of vomit filled the cell with a stale, sour stench. Worst of all, though her arm was hidden behind her in the dark, I could smell the stink of infection in her wound. I could hear her thoughts worrying about it as well. I took in the sight in the shadows of the cell door, composing myself, reminding myself of my reasons for this visit, and pasted my façade on my face as I moved toward her, out of the darkness.  
Feyre weakly looked up at my violet eyes, and the act began.  
I smiled slowly as she shifted in annoyance at my presence. “What a sorry state for Tamlin’s champion,” I crooned.  
“Go to Hell.”  
The fire was still there. Weak, a kindle of what it once was, but still burning. My smile became somewhat genuine.  
I moved toward her and crouched down to meet her gaze, scrunching my nose as the smell of vomit overwhelmed my Fae senses. I wasn’t disgusted at _her_ – I was disgusted at the state that Amarantha allowed Feyre to remain in. I was disgusted that she enjoyed knowing that Feyre was dying. And I was disgusted at myself for having to prolong Feyre’s nightmare in order to save her. Disgusted that she would never know how much it hurt me to see her like this.  
Feyre attempted to scramble into a sitting position as I glanced briefly around the cell in an attempt to disguise my fury, but she was too weak to move. My heart broke, but I remained the ever-arrogant High Lord she expected of me.  
“What would Tamlin say,” I drawled, lifting my hand to her sweat-beaded brow, “if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever?” She was so feverish, so clammy beneath my touch. She flinched ever so slightly and I dropped my hand away. “Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched.” As if he would risk his own sorry ass if he wasn’t being watched.  
She made a conceited effort to keep her arm hidden as I moved closer. “Get away,” she rasped, the pain in her face hardening as she shifted.  
I raised an eyebrow, keeping the act going. “I come here to offer you help, and you have the nerve to tell me to leave?” Let the games begin.  
Her eyelids hung heavy. “Go away,” she repeated, a new bead of sweat forming on her forehead.  
I could feel her breaking. It was time to agitate her further, as much as I hated myself for it.  
“You made me a lot of money, you know. I figured I would repay the favor.” A subtle disclosure of my allegiance to her. She would question my intentions, no doubt, for I could already sense her doing so. Such a smart woman, this magnificent human, not falling victim to my games.  
It was time to play my ace.  
“Let me see it.”  
She didn’t move. I growled, partly to scare her, and partly because what I had to do now would cause me as much pain as it caused her.  
I grabbed the arm, nearly shuddering as Feyre tried not to cry out and I felt the head-spinning pain that she endured in that moment. I smelled the blood she had drawn as she bit her lip, and pulled her arm into the light. The bone blindingly stuck out, white as snow against the pitch black of the cell, protrusive against the festering wound surrounding it. “Oh, that’s wonderfully gruesome,” I murmured, and somehow managed to swallow my bile and smile. She swore colorfully, and I laughed as I remembered her crude Cassian-like gesture at me during the trial. Fighter indeed. “Such words from a lady.”  
She barely managed to form the words “get out” as I continued to hold tight to her injured arm.  
“Don’t you want me to heal your arm?” I drawled, ready for the real test to begin. I knew Feyre had fight left in her, but I needed to gauge just how much. The more fight she had, the more I’d have to continue my façade of playing with my food before eating it, and the greater her hatred would grow. The more fight she had, the less Amarantha would suspect my true intentions. If Feyre could fight, she could save herself. She could save us all. I’d provoke her while she was in pain just to ensure that.  
“At what cost?” This perfect, smart woman.  
“Ah, _that_. Living among faeries has taught you some of our ways.” I allowed my mouth to form a light smirk and dove into the dirty work. “I’ll make a trade with you,” I said as I released her arm. She grimaced and shut her eyes with the pain of it hitting the filthy cell floor. “I’ll heal your arm in exchange for you. For two weeks every month, two weeks of my choosing, you’ll live with me at the Night Court.” Thinking about finally going back home almost shattered my demeanor, but I continued. “Starting after this messy three trial business.”  
She opened her eyes to look at me, and I could see and feel the hatred glowing beneath. I knew then that this plan would work. It had to.  
“No.” The answer I expected, of course.  
“No?” I repeated with feigned shock as I leaned toward her, so closely that we almost shared breath. “Really?”  
She looked annoyed and even angry as she breathed, “Get out.”  
“You’d turn down my offer – and for what? You must be holding out for one of your friends.” It was time to reach deep within and scoop out her desperation. I was pained it had to come to this, and I was not enjoying knocking her down when she was most vulnerable. “For Lucien, correct? After all, he healed you before, didn’t he?” Feyre’s eyes looked momentarily confused, and I realized she was acting too.  
This brilliant woman. Dying, and still able to hold her own. Such a shame I had to demolish that restraint in order to get her to accept my offer.  
I moved my hand in a gentle swatting motion. “Oh, don’t look so innocent. The Attor and his cronies broke your nose. So unless you have some kind of magic you’re not telling us about” – other than her magic over me – “I don’t think human bones can heal that quickly.” I stood and paced in the tiny cell, allowing the appearance of brooding. “The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer.”  
Right then, as she spat at my feet, my heart lurched with admiration. Though I didn’t have to fake the disapproving look I gave her – she’d missed my shoes by several inches. I knew she could do better. I saw her throw that bone at Amarantha.  
“The second option,” I continued, still pacing, “and the one only a fool would take – would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus Tamlin’s, in the hands of chance.”  
There it was. My bombshell. If she wouldn’t fight to save herself, surely she would for the man she loved.  
I stopped pacing and stared at her. I allowed myself only a fraction of a moment to wish that man were me.  
I could see that I had struck a chord, so I proceeded. “Let’s say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he’ll come in five days. Perhaps he won’t come at all. Between you and me, he’s been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha’s not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared.” If only he’d do the same for Feyre. “Such a noble warrior, your High Lord,” I sneered. “She listened, of course – but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien’s punishment. Twenty lashes.”  
She started to shake, and I could hear her mind frantically worrying for her High Lord. Not as much for her friend, I noticed. I could use that.  
I shrugged casually. “So it’s really a question of how much you’re willing to trust Lucien – and how much you’re willing to risk for it. Already you’re wondering if that fever of yours is the first sign of infection. Perhaps they’re unconnected, perhaps not.” Feyre wasn’t stupid. Far from it. She knew as well as I did what her state was. “Maybe it’s fine. Maybe that worm’s mud isn’t full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you’ll either be dead, or they’ll find your arm so infected that you’ll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.”  
I could feel the shadow of my own nausea as her stomach twisted and turned.  
“I don’t need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you’ve slowly been realizing.” I crouched down to look her in the eye. “You’re dying. How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?”  
Feyre looked at me with such hatred that I knew everything was falling exactly into place as I’d planned. She looked at me with scorn, fury, blame, and revulsion so deep that I almost questioned how much I was giving up allowing her to see this fake side of myself. “Well?”  
She did not break away from my gaze.  
“Go. To. Hell.”  
After all that, I thought she would concede. At least, I hoped she would, so I wouldn’t have to make her hate me more. With as much energy as I could muster, I shoved away my own feelings and grabbed at her injured arm. She yelped out in pain – and I felt it too – as I made myself twist the bone in her arm. It was gruesome and torturous, but I had to show the stubborn woman before me, as much as I admired that willpower, that she was truly and utterly hopeless in this moment without my help. I hated every bit of it – hurting her, forcing her to give in to my assistance, allowing myself to think she wasn’t strong enough not to need me – it went against everything I believed in and everything I truly wanted her to see in me. But for her, I’d make her assume that the High Lord of the Night Court was doing this for selfish reasons, that he would be the type of person to enjoy her pain if she would reject him.  
I’d allow her to see me as her own High Lord truly was inside. Not that she knew. I only hoped he wouldn’t be that way to her once this was all over, or he’d have to deal with me.  
She was choking out sobs as I released her arm and I forced myself to smirk, if only to elicit that last shred of anger that would send her over the edge. She spat at my face. This time she met her target.  
I wiped it away as I stood and made myself laugh. “This is the last time I’ll extend my assistance.” I paused at the door, readying myself to depart. “Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead.” And she would be too if she didn’t break now.  
She only spat at me again, and I lost hope in my plan. This woman was just too damn stubborn. How could I ever expect to break a sense of pride like hers?  
“I bet you’ll be spitting on Death’s face when she comes to claim you too,” I muttered, sinking into the shadows.  
Still – nothing.  
And, Cauldron damn me, I almost let myself believe that I’d failed. I almost turned around and healed her arm without a second thought, because the pain of leaving her to die struck me so profoundly with each step I took. Because, deep down, even though I wouldn’t let myself admit it, I knew what she was. And I couldn’t let her die as part of this game I was playing, no matter the cost, no matter the danger, no matter that Amarantha would likely try to kill her soon anyway. I couldn’t let her die, knowing that this woman was possibly, almost certainly my –  
“Wait.”  
I had nearly broken. But Feyre wouldn’t let herself fail. And, from the thoughts leaking from her mind, I knew the real reason for her forfeit was that she wouldn’t let herself fail Tamlin.  
In the moments it took me to wipe the relief, and then the jealousy, off of my face, she begged again. “Wait.”  
I moved toward her light. “Yes?”  
She raised her face to look at me. “Just two weeks?”  
The Mother blessed me. Feyre was going to save us all.  
“Just two weeks,” I purred, kneeling down to her level once more. “Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask.”  
“Why?” she asked. “And what are to… to be the terms?” She’d learned so much in so little time, and I had to say I was impressed. But I wouldn’t let her get off so easily without learning a thing or two from the master of trickery.  
“Ah, if I told you those things, there’d be no fun in it, would there?” As if any of this was fun.  
She looked at her arm. I could hear her thoughts, and for her family, for her lover, she managed to look me in the eye and utter, “five days.”  
We had more in common than I thought.  
She’d do anything for the ones she loved. Even if it meant facing her greatest enemies – one of which was, unfortunately, me.  
“You’re going to bargain?” I laughed at the enormity of her nerve. “Ten days.”  
“A week.” She did not break eye contact.  
I was silent as my heart swelled with admiration for her.  
“A week it is.”  
“Then it’s a deal.”  
I did not wait another moment before I closed the space between my hand and her arm, smiling with triumph, and worked my magic. She grimaced with pain as I healed her, eyes shut tightly, and when I was done I stepped back to admire my handiwork.  
I’d had one more trick up my sleeve.  
To convince everyone I was selfish and cruel, to persuade Amarantha that healing Feyre was just another game, and of course, to piss off Tamlin and get him to fight harder, I’d created a masterful work of art in the tattoo snaking its way up Feyre’s arm. The deep blue ink, so dark it appeared black, covered her left arm from the elbow to the fingertips.  
And, to hide the evidence of the bond I was sure was forming between us, I’d created a tattoo of an eye upon her palm, which she would believe was the source of our mutual telepathic communication.  
Of course, it wasn’t. But I could hardly admit that to myself, let alone tell his human woman who barely knew me, who hated me, and who was in love with my second-most enemy.  
But this way, I’d be able to give her access to my thoughts that she wouldn’t have, regardless of what might be forming between us, as a mortal woman. She could access me, and my help, if she needed it.  
She wouldn’t have to fight alone. And, if it came to it, she wouldn’t have to _die_ alone. But I’d do anything in my power to make sure the latter didn’t happen.  
She looked down at her markings with such a rage that I had to work hard to suppress my smirk. “What have you done to me?”  
I stood and ran a hand through my hair. “It’s custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh.”  
A lie.  
“Make it go away,” she demanded, still inspecting my masterpiece.  
I laughed. “You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren’t you?” Not a thank you for saving her all those months ago on Calanmai, not a thank you now.  
As if I expected one. As if I needed one.  
She held her hand to her face and scowled. “You didn’t tell me this would happen.”  
“You didn’t ask. So how am I to blame?” I could hear her thinking how the tattoo looked like a lace glove, and I could sense her regard for the intricate patterns. She didn’t hate it purely on its own, but rather hated the consequences of it. “Unless this lack of gratitude and appreciation is because you fear a certain High Lord’s reaction.”  
I could practically hear her scream _Tamlin!_ in her mind, and for all it was worth, I felt no small pride in the rage it would elicit from the High Lord of Spring. I wouldn’t wait much longer to see that reaction.  
“Rest up, Feyre,” I crooned, leaving her bewildered, but healed, in the shadows of her cell.  
The moment I winnowed into my chambers, I vomited.  
As I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, I couldn’t help but wonder how Amarantha could not see the strength in this woman. I couldn’t help but think how insolent she was not to fear Feyre, for her willpower would move mountains.  
I just hoped she would be able to move this mountain from underneath.

**Author's Note:**

> ***ALL CHARACTERS & DIALOGUE BELONG TO SARAH J. MAAS***


End file.
